I was inspired to write this post because I saw another fashion blogger do it and I didn’t like her outfits.
There. I said it. Can I say that? I’m not going to call her out – because she’s got twenty-thousand-times the traffic and exposure that I do, and she’s probably a very nice person, and she probably went to fashion-blogging-school and that makes her more credible than me with my Target brand sweaters and my Express jeans – but still.
She chose tights, a long skirt that hit right around her calf area (so not quite a pencil skirt, but also not a maxi dress), and some bright white Orthopedic tennis shoes for her first outfit. (I shouldn’t say the shoes were registered Orthopedic, I don’t know. They’re probably just regular tennis shoes. But they have that “look”, you know? Chunky. Clunky? You know what I mean. The grandma look is very “in” right now.)
Her next look included some alligator skinned chunky-heel boots and a big, black fur coat, layered over a denim jacket, and a turtleneck. Admittedly this is better than the Granny-chic outfit she tried on first, but honestly – where is she going with those alligator boots? Does she not live some place where it snows? Not only are they alligator skin, but the heel is at least five inches tall. Are we sure those boots are made for walking? On ice?
Her last option is probably her best bet for an actual “winter”: A long camel trench coat, a cute cream colored scarf, and one of those little Parisian hats that doesn’t cover her ears (so I’m not sure how it’s helping her to stay warm, but at least she’s on the right track). She’s also wearing these black, chunky hiking boots which – in my opinion, doesn’t vibe with the rest of the outfit – but, again, what do I know? I buy 1/3 of my clothes from Target.
If I were to write a memoir about my time spent in Hollywood, it would be titled: “That Day We Went To The Warner Brothers Studios And I Had No Chill And It Was The Best Day Of My Life And I Got To Sit On The Central Perk Couch And I Almost Saw Ellen Degeneres”.
If Kyle were to write the same memoir, his would be called: “I Spent The Day In Hollywood With My Crazy Fiancé Who Seemed More Excited About Sitting On The Central Perk Couch Than She Was When I Proposed.”
I was equally excited when he proposed. Let’s just make that clear.
I mean, more! Not equally, I was MORE excited when he proposed! But the proposal caught me off guard (in a good way). The Friends tour (also known as The Warner Brothers tour, but I just kept calling it ‘The Friends tour’) was something we had paid for ahead of time, thus giving me plenty of time to get all psyched about it: “Do you really think they’ll let us on The Friends set?”, “I hope we get to sit on the couch”, “I hope they let us take pictures!”, “Do you think we’ll get to see Ellen?”
Ellen has nothing to do with Friends. But she films across the street, and I was hoping she might walk by. And wave. And then I could tell everyone that I saw Ellen Degeneres and that she waved at me and “oh my gosh, she really is SO nice!” and then maybe people will think that I “know” Ellen Degeneres.
About three months after you get engaged, something happens. The first two months are all about celebrations and “Congratulations!” and people telling you how happy they are for you. You’ve found your person. The one who’s agreed to smell your morning breath every day for the rest of your life and kiss you anyway (albeit, sometimes on the forehead. That’s okay.)
“There’s plenty of time to plan”, people will say. “There’s no rush. Just enjoy it!”
“Just enjoy it,” they say. Until the ‘newness’ wears off. Once your friends and family have already heard the story about ‘how he did it’ and ‘where he did it’ and “did you know? Were you surprised?” – the conversation gradually fades during the upcoming months into questions about dress shopping and guest counts and napkin colors.
Napkin colors. Did you know that it’s possible to have a ten minute conversation about napkin colors? I didn’t. Until it happened the other day when I was asked about “my vision” and “were these napkins going to work with that?”
I mean… they’re still napkins, right? If I spill something, these will be the things used to clean it up? Okay. Just checking.
I went downstairs to the storage unit yesterday in our parking garage. This is one of the finer luxuries that we pay for in apartment living. Storage units and parking garages. Some of our friends own entire homes with an entire garage hooked onto their house. We pay the same amount of money to rent a 900 square foot space and keep half of our clothes under the bed. “It’s cozy!”, we say. “We love it!” We paid extra for the spot in the parking garage (Spot. Uno spot. We share it. “So cozy!”) and the storage unit. The apartment people (manager? leasing office? whoever we signed with) said that it would be “SO NICE to have just a little extra storage space!”
So we paid extra for the little wire cage in the garage. The apartment people called it a “storage unit”, but it’s a cage. It looks like a bird cage or a dog kennel. This means that it is not a heavy-duty, weather-proof steel locker that can guard our stuff against the elements. (LOL what elements? It’s in the garage, right? RIGHT.)
We don’t keep anything important in there. Just a random suitcase, some extra cleaning supplies, and seasonal decor. Things that we literally-can’t-fit-into-the-apartment. And the box to hold our Christmas decor. That’s why I was down there in the first place – to get the box to pack up our Christmas tree. I hadn’t realized yet that – apparently – the family of squirrels that have been living in our garage for the past month had decided to pee all over it.
Let me just say that again – so that it sinks in, like the pee that sunk into our box labeled “Christmas Decorations” – I opened the door to the little, wire cage in our garage (smelled a fantastic aroma), pulled out the box, and realized that my hand was greasy… from the pee. I had squirrel pee, on my hand.
So, in case you were wondering, that’s how my 2019 is going.
I love yoga. I mean, I’m not “good” at it or anything – I don’t know what I’m doing, or how to breathe, and it took me a year just to figure out what “cat cow” was.
But I love yoga. I love rolling out my little, pink yoga mat in the middle of my living room floor, and picking out a yoga video from my favorite yoga YouTube channel and pretending that I’m confident and relaxed as I stumble (and sometimes fall down) through the twenty or thirty minute sequence of my favorite YouTube yoga instructor saying “just breathe”.
I love yoga, or whatever it is that I’m doing on my living room floor (mostly just trying to twist my body into weird shapes and pretend that it’s totes relaxing). It makes me feel good. But to say that I actually “do yoga” feels a little bit like saying I’m a salsa dancer after taking a couple of Zumba classes. It’s just not the same. My yoga pants have spent more time grocery shopping and walking to 8 AM college classes than they have on yoga mats.
I dragged Kyle into the bookstore the other day to “get books for our bookshelf”.
We have a bookshelf in our living room that I’ve recently gained the opportunity to re-decorate. And when I say “recently gained the opportunity”, I mean “one of my plants died and it’s thrown the entire shelf out of whack and now I have all of this space to fill where my dead plant used to be.”
I guess if you gain nothing else from this post – there’s a lesson in what happens when you don’t water your plants.
We made a pit-stop in Phoenix last year on our way from The Grand Canyon to San Francisco (which is not at all between “The Grand Canyon and San Francisco”, for those of you familiar with geography, but it was one of the places that had an airport relatively nearby – and also because, during the planning process, I said, “Ooh! We should go to Phoenix! It’s so cool! I was there a few years ago with some friends, we loved it.”)
We LOVED IT. In hindsight, I’m trying to remember why we loved it – maybe it had something to do with the fact that it was -2 degrees back home and in Phoenix we got to wear bikinis and drink margaritas all day. That might have had something to do with it.
But I managed to forget about all of that when I said “We should to go to Phoenix!”, “It’s going to be so fun!”, “They have cactuses there!”…. so we went to Phoenix. They have cactuses there.
I was inspired to write this post because I *didn’t* buy a jacket.
Back story – I have fifteen thousand jackets at home. Probably. I haven’t counted, but I know that when I open up our “coat closet” (also doubles as our laundry/shoe/vacuum/Swiffer closet) most of the coats that I see in there are mine. Maybe three of them are Kyle’s. And one of those I bought for him.
This post could have just as easily been titled “Confessions of a Shopaholic” or “How to be a Crazy Coat Lady” – but honestly, that’s a little embarrassing and – based solely on my experience today – I am clearly turning a corner outside of my consumerism mindset.
Exhibit A: I did not buy a jacket. I *almost* did. But then, I didn’t! Yay! (Isn’t this a great story so far?)
I had been to the Grand Canyon once before. Which is not to say that when Kyle and I discussed visiting the Grand Canyon on our trip to Vegas last year, I was like – “yawn, snore – seen it, no thanks” — but I figured you should know this for two reasons:
1) Because I – for some completely stupid reason – believed this made me an expert on all things ‘Grand Canyon’. At least once I said, “No, we need to go this way. I remember from when I was here before.” (Keep in mind that I can barely remember where I parked my car in the Target parking lot after thirty minutes – but, sure, I remember this dirt path from my two hours spent at The Grand Canyon four years ago.) And also –
2) I was the WORST tour guide. For someone who has actually BEEN to the Grand Canyon before – I know shockingly little about it. We pulled up to the entrance where they were doing helicopter tours, and I actually said “Oh wow, they do helicopter tours?! That’s so cool!” So. There’s that. *Also – in case you didn’t know, they do helicopter tours.
I won’t bore you with details about my trip there from 2014. Mostly because it was two hours spent walking around with my friend saying, “Oh, will you take a picture of me by this rock?” and then taking pictures of my friend when she asked, “Hey! Will you take a picture of me on this ledge?” And then we left. Because once the profile-picture-taking-game was over, we ran out of ways to entertain ourselves. “The Grand Canyon seems like more a ‘family’ vacation spot,” we said – whatever that means. Like it’s the equivalent to Sea World.
I signed up to study abroad during my junior year of college. An entire semester in Spain designed to immerse students into the culture, learn about the history, and live with a host family who spoke zero English.
Literally, zero. No habla. Just a Madre and a padre who discussed current affairs every night at the dinner table (I’m guessing, I actually had very little idea what they were talking about. Like I said, everything was in Spanish, and they talked so fast!), and a host brother who was super into Shakira. My roommate and I heard the song Rabiosa through the thin walls of our piso AT LEAST once a day.
Spending a semester in Spain sounded like a great opportunity. I mean, yea, my Spanish skills sucked – even after two semesters of the basics, my ability to string a sentence together usually went like this: “Hola. Como estas? Chaqueta, biblioteca, gracias, tienes un pluma?” Which Google Translate will tell you means: “Hi. How are you? Jacket, library, thank you, do you have a pen?” Clearly, I was ready to navigate a foreign country.